He also knew that he had to do something about it. Fast. Unless he wanted to wait until someone he loved was hurt. And he knew exactly what he had to do. He had no choice.
Later that evening he made excuses to Karen, who was still furious with him, and set off for that Chinatown gambling club again. Karen thought she knew about Greg’s past. She really didn’t have a clue. And he could not share it with her. If she ever found out, he dreaded what the knowledge would do to their relationship. He also did not want his wife to live in fear. It didn’t matter about him. Greg had sold out to the devil many years previously, and was prepared to take the consequences. He’d learned to live with fear over the years. Once in a while he almost allowed himself to forget. But only ever almost, in spite of it having been so long since he’d been given any real cause to remember. Although he’d become expert at concealment even from those closest to him, there had always been an abiding dread in his heart. And now, it seemed, he must face his demons again.
The same security doormen, in their dark suits and dicky bows, stood outside the Zodiac. Or if they weren’t the same ones, then they were clones. Hard-faced and dangerous-looking.
But on this occasion Greg did not shuffle by and lurk around while desperately seeking the courage to go in. He knew that he must fulfil his intentions. If the latest events were anything to go by, he was probably running out of time.
So, attempting a display of confidence he certainly didn’t feel, he walked straight up to the door of the Zodiac and addressed the nearest of the two doormen, explaining briefly why he was there and who he hoped to see. The man turned his back on Greg and spoke into a mike clipped to the lapel of his jacket. He was also wearing an earpiece. Greg knew he would be carrying, probably in a belt holster, a standard security-industry Motorola two-way radio linked to other security staff within the building and, most importantly, to the upstairs offices of Zodiac Enterprises.
‘All right, you can go through,’ the doorman said after a minute or two. ‘I understand you know the way?’
Greg nodded. It had been years since he’d visited the Zodiac, but he knew the way all right. It was one of those things you never forgot. He moved swiftly through the main rooms of the club, past the usual roulette tables, the blackjack, and the fruit machines. There was also a fanton table, the traditional Chinese version of roulette involving placing bets on the number of buttons to be left beneath a bowl. Few of the clientele looked up as he passed. Intent upon their gambling, they were not interested in him, and he certainly was not interested in them. At the back was a door marked private, outside which stood a third dinner-jacketed heavy. He invited Greg to pass through, into a dimly lit hallway, then frisked him with brisk efficiency before indicating the rickety flight of stairs ahead.
Greg duly climbed to the third floor, pacing himself, hoping he was fit enough not to arrive out of breath. The walls on either side were distinctly grubby and greasy, the carpet was stained and fraying, and the door off the third-floor landing, with its peeling paint and ill-assorted door furniture, appeared to have seen far better days. But appearances can be deceptive, and almost always were in this other, secret world. The door, which was actually steel-plated beneath its layer of bad decoration, possessed all the benefits of modern technology, including a camera eye. As Greg approached, as if by magic, it opened smoothly to reveal the sumptuously appointed rooms within. Greg stepped inside. His feet sank into plush carpet in the richest shade of purple. Opulent leather furniture and banks of computers lined the walls, one of which bore a massive flat-screen TV.
Across the room the man Greg had come to see sat behind a gleaming steel-and-glass desk. Obsequious minions, male and female, Oriental and Caucasian, flitted about the place.
Tony Kwan, third generation of a redoubtable family of Hong Kong immigrants, described himself as a businessman. But Greg knew him to be rather more than that. And quite disconcertingly so.
Kwan was one of the latest in a long line of Soho Chinese who were both frighteningly powerful and powerfully frightening. His office, like everything else in his world, was a hidden-away place, a casually concealed oasis of style and luxury from which this one man ran a terrifying empire.
Kwan, taller than the average Chinese, very thin, immaculately coiffured and Savile Row tailored, rose from his desk, strode across the carpet, and, bowing his head slightly, took Greg’s hand and shook it warmly.
‘Welcome,’ he said. ‘I am most pleased to see you again, Gregory. It has been far too long. Welcome.’
Kwan was well known for his unfailing courtesy. Unlike Greg, and the inner-city kids who remained the bedrock of his organization. Kwan had been educated at a top English public school, and he invariably displayed the manners which perfectly complimented the accent. There were those, however, who believed that the more polite Tony Kwan was, the more dangerous he was.
‘Thank you,’ said Greg, licking dry lips in order to be able to speak. He hoped his voice was steady. ‘I am most pleased to see you too, Mr Kwan.’
Kwan had always called Greg by his full given name — chosen by a mother who’d formed an adolescent crush on Gregory Peck which had lasted until her death — and was now the only person who did so. It still took Greg by surprise, but he responded in the manner that he knew was expected. With equal courtesy and also with formality. He was well aware that he should always address the Chinese gang boss as mister, if he knew what was good for him, just like everyone else did, even though he had first met the other man when they were both little more than boys. It was about respect. And respect was everything in this frightening other world. The world of the Triads, the Chinese gangs with international networks on a scale which made the Mafia look like the small family business Greg knew the Triad bosses more or less regarded it as. Kwan was a very important Triad boss. Greg had always been aware of that, even though it was never mentioned. Indeed, Greg had never heard Kwan or any of his associates utter the word ‘Triad’.
Kwan called to one of his minions for tea, which was duly brought by a pretty young woman wearing an elegant silk cheongsam. She kept her head bowed as, with traditional ceremony, she poured the pale beverage into exquisite small bowls of finest porcelain. Greg couldn’t help wondering what her other duties were.
Kwan asked Greg about the welfare of his wife and children, to which Greg responded evenly, although his nerves were on edge. He didn’t like to hear the other man mention his family.
‘So, Gregory, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?’ asked Mr Kwan eventually.
Greg had known better than to attempt to lead their conversation.
‘I just wanted to pay my respects,’ said Greg, keeping his face as expressionless as he could and his voice level. ‘And to assure you, Mr Kwan, that if there is anything I can do for you, you only have to ask.’
‘Ah, yes.’
Kwan stared at Greg. He didn’t seem to blink like other men. Greg was still trying not to allow his body language to give anything away, certainly no indication of the knot of fear that was tightening like a vice around his lower abdomen. But he knew he had no answer to Tony Kwan’s unnerving Oriental inscrutability.
‘And is there any reason, Gregory, any particular reason for you to come to me now, I wonder?’ asked Kwan.
‘No, of course not, Mr Kwan,’ lied Greg. ‘Like I said, I just thought it was time I paid my respects.’
‘Ah yes,’ Mr Kwan repeated. ‘We appreciate it, Gregory. We want you to know that. We sincerely appreciate it.’
Greg nodded. It was not unusual for Tony Kwan to adopt the royal ‘we’; no doubt he saw himself as a monarch of sorts. And although he kept a lower profile, he wielded more power than most modern monarchs.